Humanity for the Wicked
by ladyofmaybes97
Summary: It was impossible, yet the undeniable truth pounded within his chest as if it had never stopped, mocking him. How could this be? How could his humanity be returned when it was lost all those centuries ago?


An old forgotten ache was slowly forming within his heaving chest. It grew in intensity as he shifted, the unfamiliar beat pounded throughout his head and aching body restlessly. He cried out, the movement sending shocks through his protesting body, throbbing in time with the ache in his chest. He remained there for a few moments longer, struggling to comprehend the sudden pulse that surged through his body with a long lost life. It was impossible, yet the indisputable proof pounded in his chest as if it had never stopped.

Forcing his unwilling eyes to open, Alucard immediately regretted the action upon doing so, but refused to give in and blurrily surveyed his piercing surroundings. The dim light burned his sensitive eyes and Alucard fought the primal urge to hiss. He was in a dingy, waste filled alley somewhere in the heart of London. His hands quickly searched his pockets for his guns, though he could feel they were empty to begin with. He gnashed his too flat teeth together in a sneer.

He wrenched his aching, tired, and incredibly _human _body up from the ground. His movements were slow, lethargic. He leaned up against an overflowing dumpster to steady himself as the alley began to tilt and scowled.

"What is this?" He demanded. His throat was raw and his voice sounded terribly accented to him. Did he always sound like that? No, that's how he sounded before his imprisonment; speaking English with a heavy Romanian accent. Was he reverting?

What madness was this? The world still spun sickeningly around Alucard as he tried to move. His chest- no, his heart continued to beat with a loud, steady rhythm. How did this happen? How _could_ this happen? Never in his entire existence had he heard of a vampire becoming human again. Humanity could not be returned to those of the damned, no matter what method was used.

Shaking his head, Alucard brought a gloved hand to his face and froze. The ever-present seals, the sigils which had remained there for nearly a century, were gone. His contract with Hellsing was severed. What had happened to him? His head pounded as he tried to recall the events that led to this. Who had the power to unbind and revive him? Integra could release him if she so desired, but his soul was lost centuries ago.

Stumbling out of the grimy alley, Alucard found himself on an equally tarnished side-street. A cold blast of air cut through him as he walked, his clothes doing nothing to insulate him. A look down explained why. His suit was fading at the edges, the power that had once manifested them leaving with his return to humanity. Alucard cursed and drew his red duster about himself more tightly. The last time he had truly experienced cold was in the snow-capped mountains of his homeland.

The next alley he came upon had haggard bodies littered among the trash and other filth. There were at least a dozen of them curled up in stoops and boxes. As he trudged by, the homeless began to stir, glaring distrustfully at him. He sneered at a few of them, effectively dissuading them. He was still intimidating, regardless of immortality.

One of the boxes ahead shifted and a gnarled face leered out at him. The man it belonged to leered blurrily at Alucard as he came closer.

Alucard ignored it and passed by, more concerned with getting back to the… where was he going? He froze, fear stricken. Was his memory fading as well? No, it couldn't! The only things he truly owned were his memories. What bastard creature could do this to him?

"Bleedin' wanker," someone spat, cutting through his thoughts. "Move along, ya hear?"

It was the man in the cardboard box, clutching a bottle and still glaring at him. Alucard realized he had paused in front of this whelp while he was thinking and frowned. He moved over to the man, an idea coming over him as he saw the man's clothes.

The drunk peered up from his cardboard sanctuary, blood-shot eyes angrily focusing on him. The man reeked heavily of alcohol and various other unpleasant things. But his clothes looked rather new and clean for a man on the street, most likely stolen. Alucard had no qualms about taking from the man, seeing as his manifested clothes were slowly fading away. The only solid garment he owned was the red duster, which was much too noticeable in his new situation.

"Your clothes," he rasped in that horrid accent. It was getting worse. His English was beginning to fade from him as well."I want them."

"Wha' the bleedin' hell you on 'bout? God damn crack-heads runnin' 'bout me alley. I told ya to move along. These 'ere are me clothes." Alucard frowned as he processed the homeless man's slurred speech.

While he no longer possessed the abilities of a nosferatu, Alucard was far more than capable of dealing with an old drunkard. Drawing closer, he snarled at the man and grabbed his lapels. The man cursed and swung at him. The move was uncoordinated and weak, striking his shoulder. Even as a human, the hit was barely felt.

"Give the clothes."

The drunk continued to struggle and curse in his hold, knocking over the near-by bottle of liquor. Alucard's initial thought was to bite the man, but a lack of lethal fangs forced him to strike the man back. The punch caught the man square in the face, cracking something. The man cried out and quickly crumbled, collapsing on his cardboard shelter. The other residents of the alley turned away and went about their business, the mugging a familiar scene to them.

Alucard worked swiftly, striping the man of his shirt, pants and shoes. The items didn't fit quite right, the shoes too tight and the pants too wide, though he decided it was better than running about naked in an old coat. He quickly left the alley and kept to the lengthening evening shadows. Now that he could properly look around; he found the area to be in ruins, buildings crumbled and trash covering the streets.

Where was he going again? A great compound of some sort, he thought. A castle maybe- but, no, those were things of the past. It was something more modern. A mansion- no, it was a manor! Pleased with himself for remembering, the Count turned in the direction he thought the old Carfax manor to-

No! He scowled and shook his pounding head. It was the Hellsing manor now. Centuries of memories and experiences were slipping away from him like blood from a fatal wound. He needed to find that girl, Arthur's child. The Count had the vaguest sense the girl could help.

The Count walked quickly through the ruins of London, mumbling to himself as went. He was not aware of when the words switched from disjointed, fragmented English to that of his native tongue, nor was he aware of the moment his hair lengthened to reach past his waist and stubble appeared on his face.

Vlad wandered through the strange battle-torn city restlessly, not knowing why the area was so familiar or why he was there. His clothes were ill-fitting and stunk heavily of liquor, his trusted armor and broad sword last tangible memory he could recall was that of combat, and even then the sights and sounds of war mixed and tumbled to form a chaotic insurgence within his mind.

The sun was beginning to set, leaving Vlad alone in the strange wrecked city. A few other people shuffled about at this hour and Vlad watched them wearily, drawing his coat about himself. They looked… foreign. Their clothes, their speech- even their expressions seemed foreign in the dark of night. He tried to communicate with a few of them, but after what sounded like curses and crucifixes shoved in his face he maintained his people were obviously superstitious, which begged the question of why. Did monsters roam the streets at night?

His answer came soon enough.

Vlad saw the creature before it noticed him. It was horrible, limbs twisted wrong and flesh hanging off its' emaciated, rotted body like a large pelt. The thing was bent over the remains of a corpse, crunching through sinew and bone like they were simple bread. Vlad kept his breathing short, movements limited. If he could get away without catching the unholy thing's attention, he should be safe. Even from here, he could tell its'actions were slow and uncoordinated- easy to outrun if it came to that.

He slowly began to back away, cursing whatever divine power that had saw fit to leave him in this strange hell without his sword. No wonder the people of this county carried their crosses like a shield.

Vlad was almost at the end of the street, eyes still locked on the inhuman creature. Unfortunately, that left him vulnerable to the abomination's partner.

The second one came from above, dropping down behind him. Vlad spun and ducked as the thing clawed at him, nearly losing his footing as he did. It kept at him, moaning and screeching as it grabbed for him. A lucky swipe caught his hair, the creature's claws easily tangling in his matted waves. Vlad sneered and kicked at it, snapping its' elbow. The things' grip only tightened. It drew him closer, close enough to smell its rancid breath as its' grotesque mouth widened.

The ghoul's jagged teeth were mere seconds away from piercing his flesh when a sound like compressed thunder rang out. The creature lurched backwards in a shower of black ichor as something collided with it, its' head all but gone. Two more shots rang out, one silencing the thrashing, headless creature on the ground, the other striking its feasting companion in the chest, obliterating it.

Vlad was all together awestruck and petrified, unable to comprehend the destructive power behind those shots. No projectile weapon he could conceive of had that kind of power. Slowly, he turned towards the origin of the shots and took a guarded stance, praying this was all just a horrid illusion.

His prayers went unanswered.


End file.
